The Lone Prairie
by Dodectron
Summary: The last thoughts of a dead man living have more of an impact than he expects. We all know what happened to John Marston when he had his last stand; but what happened to him and his progeny afterwards? Caution: Contains spoilers of the ending.
1. Prologue

_Oh, carry me back to the lone prairie  
Where the coyotes howl and the wind blows free  
And when I die you can bury me  
'Neath the western skies on the lone prairie._

Cracked wood beneath his hands splintered further as fingers closed on the door ridges, tightening in nervous contemplation. His breath was coming in short gasps. Scrabbling on the other side of the door made him sigh in despair; poor Rufus. A shot from the army outside lay the hound down with a startled yelp, and he wished that the faithful dog had been less loyal. Perhaps then, it would have been spared.

His wife and son had already escaped. The only thing left to do was to face down the murderous dogs that were circling his farm like vultures. Blood was slowly pooling under the barn door, and he allowed his feet to automatically leap away as if it was diseased. Perhaps it was diseased. He never paid attention to Rufus much, belying the little mutt's unceasing love.

"Come on out, Mr. Marston! We need to have a little talk!"

John stared at the barn door, as if his eyes could make the entire army explode with invisible dynamite. There was no other way. By god, there was no other way. Even by doing this, he was only lengthening the time it would take Abigail to die. He knew their love would drag her to hell with him. Poor Jack, having a bastard father before he could take to the plains as the cowboy he knew the boy would make.

He could feel his legs shaking beneath him. Time was rushing like the waterfall he'd nearly dropped to his death from, a week or so ago. It was inevitable, and perhaps that was why he wanted to fight it so badly. A revolver hung in his limp hand, ammo depleted to a single round of bullets. Even if he did drink the last of the snake oil that old Dickens had made him pay for, he could only take a few lawmen with him.

"You can't stay in there forever, John! Why don't you just surrender?" crowed the cur Ross from outside. Damn, he wished he could take that man with him. But that would take away a foe for Jack to hate his whole young life. There was a chance that the boy mightn't want to go on after his fathers' and mothers' death, so he needed a few reasons to keep battling like the outlaw he was at heart. But that didn't mean he couldn't get Fordham. That bastard, forcing him into acting like some cowardly tamed bear, dancing for their amusement.

"We'll just have to smoke you out," Ross finally remarked. John could hear them approaching, and the scent of alcohol and fire made him tense. No! The barn was possibly the only structure on the farm that would be impossible to repair or replace with just two people. He didn't allow himself to think for any longer.

"I'm taking you with me!" he snarled, bowling aside the big barn door with a revolver aimed directly at Ross's head. The man's eyes went cross-eyed; terror plain on his face, and John grimaced. Then he whirled around and quickly dispatched Fordham, two horsemen and the two nearest soldiers. All of the remaining soldiers panicked and fired at him with their superior rifles, slamming into a barrier of mere flesh.

His vision faded into red clouds. Moving black shapes were all he could see of the infantry. He could feel his breath wheezing, not just from a torn throat but also from holes imbedded in his chest. The strength in his limbs completely left, and John fell to his knees, dropping the bloodied revolver from slackened fingers.

He felt the warm sun on his face. The sound of grass whirring in a light breeze, and the snort of horses in the corral. Against his better judgement, the cowboy held on to these sensations, trying desperately to live for a few more seconds. Ross appeared above him, his face almost guilty as his revolver was held to John's head.

"Goodbye, Mr. Marston."

BANG!

_I'm a roving cowboy far away from home  
Far from the prairie where I used to roam  
Where the doggies wander and the wind blows free  
Thought my heart is yonder on the lone prairie._

He opened his eyes and stared. A freshly made grave was below, adorned lovingly with a wooden cross. He squinted at the writing; 'John Marston, 1873-1911. Blessed are the Peacemakers.'

The sun shone down in all its fiery power, but he couldn't feel it. Grass brushed his ankles, but it made no sound against him. John stared ahead, empty-eyed, and clenched his fists.

He could feel the open prairie behind him, dry grass waving and perhaps a lone buffalo that escaped the hunters lowing in despair. Two graves lay beside his own, one belonging to his dear Abigail and that crazy old fool Uncle. A skeleton lay against the tree, empty eye-sockets gazing straight at John.

"It looks like I've got one last job to do," John murmured. His eyes unfocused as he gazed down at his farm; it seemed to have aged by at least a hundred years, falling to pieces and empty as a dried-up river bed. As he faded under the direct sunlight, John closed his eyes and hummed a tune that he'd been taught by Van der Linde during his youth.

_Oh, carry me back to the lone prairie  
Where the coyotes howl and the wind blows free  
And when I die you can bury me  
'Neath the western skies on the lone prairie..._


	2. Chapter 1

**Ugh, I forgot the disclaimer last chapter. So here it is.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Red Dead Redemption, but I do own Debbie and this plotline that I've concocted. This isn't necessarily AU, and takes place after the original storyline by about 100 years, but does contain spoilers from the game. Rated T, because I'm paranoid.**

**And in response to CuteKitten, yes that skeleton was Jack. Thank you for reviewing.**

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

A hand thrust itself from under the blankets, slamming on whatever button lay on top of the bleating alarm. The sound continued, gaining intensity and become increasingly irritating, until a face dragged itself from the pillow and the hand finally located the switch. Blessed silence.

The face dropped back into the pillow, black hair strewn wildly where it wasn't held tightly in by a large braid. Another day to get through. More chances for that idiotic man she was competing with to sabotage her life- again –and less time to find that next big scoop of a lifetime.

She seemed perfectly happy to go back to sleep, but scratching claws on glass was just loud enough to reach her under the bedcovers. A groan and a jaw-cracking yawn later, and Debbie was on her way to the tarantula's glass box. It scuttled around on the sand like a crab, and she smiled down at it serenely. "You hungry, boy? I think there might be a lizard or two left..." with that vague remark, she wandered to the wall in which there were several small shelves.

She pulled on a leather glove and held the shelf's handle for a moment, holding her breath. Then, in a quick movement, she slid it open, snatched up the little skink that scurried about inside, and slammed the shelf shut again. Her prize was clutched in a fist; a tiny lizard, the size of a pinkie finger. The girl smirked and sauntered to her pet's cage.

"Here you are, precious," she cooed, dangling the lizard by its tail over the lidless area. The tarantula, seeming to sense or see that food was just above its head, reared up in what to an animal expert would seem aggressive. But not to Debbie. The skink fell, and was snatched up in a split second. But Debbie wasn't there to watch; she was already stumbling, yawning, to the kitchen.

One and a half hours later, Debbie was struggling with the revolving door at the ground floor of her workplace. The cursed things simply refused to move when she pushed them, pulled them, or just ran into them. The administrator inside finally came to help when she was at the point of allowing her head to drop onto the glass in defeat.

"Just in time, Ms. Stillwell," Debbie said dryly as she was led inside holding the girl's hand, feeling about ten years younger. "As usual."

Ms. Stillwell smiled obliviously and flounced back to behind her desk. The girl was completely clueless, nearly as dumb as the big oaf Sam that loitered around outside the building, leering at anyone he thought might be dangerous to his employers. Debbie had felt that creepy stare as she was wrestling with the door. It wasn't like she could dismiss him, though; he's the only security this place has.

"The boss wants to talk to you-"

"Tell her I'm busy at the moment," Debbie snapped, irritated already. The red-haired administrator peered at her with huge eyes, very easily intimidated. "Y-yes, miss..." the girl managed, reaching timidly for the phone on her desk.

Of course, there wasn't really a job for her to do. Right now the news was slower than Ms. Stillwell's attempts at long division. That was what she did; Debbie was a news reporter for the newspaper 'Sydney National Newspapers'. She was constantly in fear for her position, being the youngest employee of Mrs. Barbett, the boss of SNN. And her partner wasn't exactly helping at the moment...

"Debbs! How 'ya doing?"

Speak of the devil.

A short man waltzed up to Debbie with a smirk on his face. That meant trouble, and she internally winced when he got close enough to sling a fake-friendly arm over her shoulder. He bent down and breathed into her ear, making the small hairs on her skin curl and shrivel in disgust. A few co-workers sauntered past; pretending to not be eavesdropping. Their all-too-curious eyes gave them away too easily, however.

"You know, Dibs, there's a space for you as a Janitor- might wanna take that chance before you get laid off indefinitely," he teased, still smirking. Debbie gingerly unwound his arm from her shoulders and stepped away, mentally cursing the shower she'd rushed that morning. Maybe having a bad smell would have scared him off.

"I'm going to be a reporter, Ian, and you aren't going to scare me away from that," she growled in her gruffest voice. He shrugged and wandered off with the air of a man satisfied with his efforts. Debbie blinked; he was acting weirder than usual today.

She shrugged it off and headed straight to the coffee machine. It was free for employees, and she took full advantage of its caffeine. Thank god no-one had banned caffeine as an illegal drug yet. That didn't mean anything though; she distrusted most politicians, and every move the prime minister made seemed a little suspicious to her.

On the way, she dropped her handbag twice, had to avoid a co-worker laden with food for their 'friends' and forgot where the machine was again. It had been at least half a year since Debbie had achieved her dream of being a reporter, but she simply couldn't remember every bit of information the boss and everyone else thought she needed to know. Fortunately a friendly passersby paused in their morning shamble to the office and pointed out the way to the bathroom, the coffee machine and her cubicle.

"Thank you," Debbie muttered and shuffled off in search of bean-flavoured water.

Her day included chatting to the other girls that worked in other cubicles near her own, scouring the internet for anything vaguely interesting that might work as a news story, and wondering if she should buy another tarantula for her baby. A female, to have eggs with, or a male, to be a wimp and get beaten up. Either one would be a great way for her baby to blow off steam.

As the hours passed, she watched the clock with a tired eye. It mightn't be obvious to someone that didn't work there, but everyone was cooperating and doing their jobs with the same vigour as bees under their queen. That made the boss the bee queen. Debbie shared that joke with her workmates and grinned in delight when they laughed in approval.

Finally the time struck six o'clock, and she tossed the remains of her lunch in the closest bin; a half-eaten tub of yoghurt (she actually hated the stuff, but apparently it's good for you) and the plastic wrapper of a sandwich she'd managed to snag from the vending machine during a ten-minute lunch break. Who puts sandwiches in a vending machine, anyway? The thing had tasted horrible.

Of course she got lost again. This time the bluey from downstairs led her to the elevator, smiling with empty eyes and whispering to her about how annoyed the boss was. Debbie scowled when she realized that she'd forgotten to visit the boss's office during the day.

"Oh man, she's gotta be really upset with me... can you do me a favour?" she asked with a pleading tone of voice. Ms. Stillwell pretty much melted at the genuinely nice display and fell over herself to get the phone and help with whatever the news reporter wanted. She was stupid, and made a bad name for red-heads everywhere, but was innocent as a baby and wanted to please people just as much. "Oh thank you so much! Now, um, could you please-"

"Tell the boss that you had urgent business and couldn't see her for reasons other than selfish personal issues?" piped up Ms. Stillwell in a knowing voice. Debbie was very surprised at this, but shrugged and nodded. "I'm amazed, mate- how did you know?"

"Oh don't worry, you're the third person I've done this for today alone!" she trilled and hurriedly typed in a complicated number that made Debbie's head spin just by watching.

"Anyway, I, uh... have to go. I've got a mouth to feed at home. Bye!" She said very quickly and hurried into the revolving door in a flurry of plaits and impatience to get home. It was like that old phrase went; give her an inch, and she'll take a mile.


	3. Chapter 2

**This chapter is a little bit short, but I hate writing tame at-home stuff anyway. And for anyone who wants to know, her pet tarantula is male, named Bob and is a Chilean Rose, which is the most commonly store-bought tarantula. Acknowledgement goes to The-Goldstein-Sharpshooter for reviewing the last chapter. Thanks!**

The screen door crashed shut behind her, the loud sound making her flinch. The cool interior of the house encompassed her body; home.

Debbie sighed in relief and allowed her bag to drop to the ground, stumbling to the kitchen and struggling to find a clean glass without bothering to turn on the light. Something cold and hard was found by her dry fingers, and she tugged it free of a small pile-up of plastic mugs. The refrigerator hummed while she held the cream door open, and she took the jug of cold, filtered water.

The phone rang as she was finishing pouring the icy water, but Debbie ignored it until the ringing stopped. Every day after work was her alone time and no interruptions were allowed. The silence nearly seemed to ring in the air, except for an appreciative sigh after a few seconds of allowing water to run into her stomach.

"Screw this. I'm watching t.v." she growled after ten minutes of the quiet, and stomped off to the couch. Just as she had found the Simpsons, the phone rang again. This time they left a message, and she muted the television as whoever had rang stumbled through their message.

"Hey Debbs, it's.. uh... it's Russel."

Her eyes flew open, and she sat bolt upright. The television played mutely onwards, the credits of the Simpsons scrolling up on a black screen, while Russel kept talking.

"Look, I just wanted to say, uh..."

She didn't move, muscles tense and head turned to the phone with a nearly pleading expression.

"I think I left my socks at your place."

Oh. Right. Debbie turned away and fell back on the couch, grabbing a pillow and clasping it over her ears. Even the thick cushion couldn't erase his last words.

"Yeah, sorry for calling just about this and stuff. So see you later."

Debbie screamed and threw the pillow at her television. Thankfully it just bounced off, being a fairly sturdy buy after the last television she'd killed after a miniature temper tantrum. At the moment however, she didn't care. Instead of simply deleting the message and continuing her nice, peaceful evening, the young woman stormed off to her bedroom. The television continued to play soundlessly, watching the empty couch with no expression.

The Chilean Rose slowly tip-toed over her hand that was resting on the wooden floor, Debbie doing her best not to jolt it off or scare it. She watched with a small smile as it finished climbing the funny contours of the back of her hand, and the tarantula perched there like a man that's just conquered Everest. It was oddly friendly for a spider, and Debbie didn't even need to wear plastic glasses around it.

"I wish you hadn't been depoisoned, mate. Maybe then we could get rid of Russel once and for all," she commented bitterly. It slowly turned in a circle and started to climb off her hand again. The small hooks in its feet tickled, but she ignored the ticklish feeling and stared out the scratched and dirty window in the wall. Clouds were gathering, which meant either rain or a threat of rain all day tomorrow. Australia's weather is a weird thing; you might get a thunderstorm, a bushfire and hail all in the same month, in that order. Then it'll seem to be close to raining, you'll get grumpy because you already had to get through a bunch of stupid weather patterns, and the clouds will suddenly dissipate the next day. It's like the weather around this country likes playing pranks.

The words from Russel played through her head again. That jerk. He used to be with Debbie; they used to promise to never leave each other, and they both tried to forget whenever they had another fight over nothing. Then one day he realized that he wasn't getting anywhere by living with her. He left and was currently figuring out if he was even straight.

Now he gets her hopes up all over again, if only for a few seconds. And in the same stupid, stammering sentence, he kills those hopes and sets them on fire. It certainly felt like she was on fire. Her face was probably bright red, and her skin was tingling with suppressed rage and some strange sadness. It was stupid, anyway. They ended up breaking away from each other because of some cryptic saying from their parents.

'Nothing ever gets forgiven, or forgotten.'

What kind of dumb saying is that, anyway?


	4. Chapter 3

**Yo, people. Sorry for the long wait, I got writer's block and needed to decide how this chapter would lead into the next one. Hopefully you all know what that's like. Thanks for reviewing again, The-Goldstein-Sharpshooter, and in response to your question about Jack-**

**I personally think that Jack went on to have a family. After that, when he was ready to die, he'd go back to his family's graves out of wanting to be with them forever. Yeah... I'm getting sentimental with the characters. :\**

**Enjoy.**

The phone was shrill and loud, trilling with no mercy into the only ear visible underneath a stack of feather-stuffed quilts. Debbie's hand attempted to hit the 'off' button on the alarm clock and somehow turned the thing on, making the racket blare uncomfortably loudly. Bob the tarantula unhappily scampered around his tank, squealing angrily.

Five minutes later the phone _finally_ went to answering machine, though the alarm clock was still quite happily beeping away. Debbie emerged from the quilts like a feral rat from its burrow, angrily silencing the alarm and listening hard to the remainder of the oh-so-important message.

"-Wondering if you had time for it. Well, call soon, anyway. You do know it's three o'clock, right? Peace, out."

Bob calmed down in the silence and sat still like his kind often would to escape from overhead birds. Of course, if a bird tried to eat him, it would probably end up as a meal instead. Tarantulas are as big as a grown man's hand, and all of them are poisonous. Debbie stroked the glass lid affectionately as she drifted off to the shower.

A full hour later, she was clean, dressed, fed and listening to the phone message with increasing dismay. Apparently her friends had been calling all day (it was a Saturday, so this was fairly normal behaviour for this particular brand of friends) to demand her presence at a LAN party that night. However, that meant having another bad night's sleep. Crying and getting bitten by a de-poisoned tarantula was likely to ruin your night, no matter how hard the day had been.

"Great. Well, I guess I'd better get..." she trailed off, glancing at her computer and a small stack of games on the same desk it stood upon. "Packed." A light breeze stirred in from the open window and made goosebumps pop from her skin. It also sent a cold shiver down her spine.

Debbie stood up and began to get ready for the party, a tiny smile on her face.

_Shadowed eyes watched from beneath a tattered leather hat, the face emotionless and unmoving beneath the many scars and calluses spread across its surface. The man stood beside a funnily-arranged pile of boxes, atop a wooden table, and one corner was poking through his stomach. He looked down at it emptily and walked away, making no sound with his feet but going straight through the lady._

_She was only a girl really, though in his time a girl her age would be already married. Something about her seemed familiar, and he studied her as she shivered from his passing. Black hair woven into a rope lay down her back, and her face- it looked just like..._

_His eyes brightened and lit with a fire that had been non-existent before. He moved to see the card with her picture that was left on the table. The name there made him feel like someone had punched him in the stomach, though that was impossible now._

_He straightened up and inched into the corner. It would be a good idea to keep his presence as unnoticeable as possible; people these days saw ghosts in every gust of ordinary wind..._

At six, Debbie showed up on the doorstep of Mike's house, tidy and clean and knowing that in a few hours that wouldn't even matter.

"Hey, man! I knew you'd show up!" the scrawny 20-year-old chirped cheerfully and gracefully accepted the gigantic bowl of Doritos along with a big bottle of coke. Debbie smirked at him. "Riiight. That's why you called me about eight times today? Isn't that what we'd call desperate?"

He mumbled and turned away, but she gave him a big hug. He brightened up again after that.

Cheers met her as she stumbled into the main gaming room, a camo-painted room lined with power ports and tables that computers could be set up on. Six other friendly acquaintances were already playing counterstrike, chattering away in gamer-speak. She struggled with the cords attached to her console, but eventually figured out how to make the thing work and was soon battling it out with the experts.

Fighting a girl was a novelty for the others. Female gamers weren't unheard of in first shooter games, but were uncommon enough for the others to ignore her as a newbie for the first few games. Of course, she soon changed their minds by killing anyone dumb enough to turn away from her. Their soldier characters spun and weaved through buildings, fields, battlegrounds, wastelands-

BOOM!

Her character fell to the ground, sniped by a camper on top of a house. Her screeches of anger were drowned out by the high-fives and sardonic teasing of 'girl-basher'.

"Who wants pizza?" called out Mitch from the next room. They all quickly abandoned their consoles and rushed into the kitchen, where pizza boxes lay open and ready, displaying glistening cheese and tomato sauce.

It was a miniature brawl to get to the pizzas in time for a slice, and Debbie managed to punch, elbow and headbutt her way in and out of the fray, holding three slices aloft in victory. She slid back to a corner to savour her prize, chewing on the cheese while smirking at the boys left with nothing but crumbs.

Mitch wandered over and leaned on the wall next to her, munching on what looked like a drumstick. They stayed that way in companionable silence for about two seconds before Mitch whirled around to face her with a wild look in his eye.

"Debs, I gotta tell you something!"


	5. Chapter 4

**Yo all followers of this story. Sorry for the long time between last chapter and this one, but I've been on camp and I was having panic attacks about my future career. Heh. Anyway, I'd just like to say, I do not agree with cigarettes at all. It's a character flaw that was unavoidable and fairly interesting in Debbie's making. I'm sorry if the little legend in this offends anyone, since I'm not too aware of how legends were really told back in the time of buffalo herds.**

There was an awkward silence.

"..Well? Are you going to tell me?" Debbie asked after a minute of suffering through the burning gaze of her best friend.

He leaned back, smirked and said nothing.

Debbie ignored him after that, and took special care to kill his game character whenever he came into her gun's sights. This was just a game, she convinced herself, and to win it, she must overcome his confidence and the arrogant belief that he was getting to her.

Everyone else was giggling at this point, partially from lack of sleep and overdose of sugar, but also because a guy was getting his ass kicked by a girl. He tried to beat her with his skill with a sniper rifle, but there was no match for anger coming from a woman.

Finally he gave in.

"Alright, Debbs, I'll tell you! Stop being meeean!" he whined with an innocent look of confusion on his face. She smugly grinned at the pout, completely unaffected.

"Okay, look, there's this really cool story I heard from my pop the other day, and I think you'd really like it. You wanna hear it?" Mike asked in a fake-doubtful voice. "Yeah, it sounds cool," she responded cautiously. "Does it involve zombies or something?"

If there was one thing she had a weakness from, it was zombies. She could watch vampire movies, be regaled with tales of werewolves eating people alive, even see various gory alien shows, but the slightest hint of a zombie eating people's brains and infecting others would send her leaping for the back of the couch. Mike, of course, knew this, and loved to annoy her by switching the game's settings to a mod that turned everyone into undead creatures.

He didn't answer, but logged himself off the game and beckoned her into a different room, smiling. Debbie quickly logged off herself and followed.

He waited until she had closed the door before speaking. When he did begin, it was in a surprisingly solemn voice, and he wasn't smiling at all.

"This is a story told by the Indian-Americans that still live out in the Western American States, Debbie. It's younger than most of their stories, but it's one of the most well-liked at the same time."

"I didn't know your grandpa was American, Mikie," interrupted Debbie. He scratched the back of his head and stammered a little, but eventually decided to ignore her comment.

"There was once a white man that came from a far-away part of what whites call 'the city'. He looked as all whites did, but he acted differently to them, too. He did not slaughter horses or mistreat women the way their kind was wont to do, but also didn't kill our people only because they were Indian. He left a trail of dead men from one side of the land to the other, leading from the white town Blackwater to the red land across the river, eventually reaching back into the plains of our forefathers.

It was not known why he killed men, and he did not have an untainted soul, but this white man was different from the rest, and he was killed by the men he called his own kind."

Mike fell into silence, which was almost contemplative. Debbie allowed the silence to continue for a moment, but couldn't restrain her professional media-centric curiosity from surfacing like a bored humpback whale.

"Is that it? That's the story you wanted to tell me? What was this man's name? Why did he kill people? Was he an outlaw?" she demanded. It was a new kind of annoyance to know a little, but not all, of something, and it was the job of a reporter to find the missing links that connected stories together. Mike held up his hands in surrender, wincing.

"Hey, man, that's the story my pop told me. Word for word. I wanted to make it a little more interesting, but my pop said that the spirits wanted me to tell you about it exactly how he said it," he whimpered, warding off her questions but also creating more.

"So your grandpa wanted me to know? Why? What particular spirits? Is your grandpa-"

"He isn't senile!"

"I wasn't going to say that. I was going to say... disillusioned."

"Great, so now he's crazy?"

"No. Just misguided, maybe. Does he want me to do a story on his spirits or something?"

"Don't say it like that!" For the first time since she'd met him, Mike actually looked angry. He seemed to tower in a darkening room, and electricity sparked in his voice and eyes. Debbie shrank a little, looking down. "I-I didn't meant to be mean, Mike. I don't mean to be disrespectful."

He turned away and paced the room, still with a thunderous expression on his face. She frowned and exited the building altogether, sitting on the step outside.

A box appeared in her hand as if by magic, and Debbie felt herself automatically pull a stick from the cardboard interior, set it on fire with a lighter that was kept in her pocket, and breathe in whilst holding the intact end between her teeth lightly. The acrid taste of smoke made her cough once, but the recent years had been stressful enough that she was far more used to the smell than she should have been. After the second pull, the pleasant buzz of nicotine spread from her smoke-lined lungs.

It had been wrong to fire questions like a machine gun, obviously. Every question had probably done more damage to their friendship than a real bullet would have. There was an understanding between Debbie and Michel; don't talk about stuff they're sensitive about, and never insult either's beliefs or the beliefs of people they're close to. She hadn't meant to be insensitive, merely felt encouraged to ask on the basis of curiosity. She had broken the taboo. Debbie breathed in the smoke again.

A hand reached from the sky and plucked the half-burnt stick from her mouth, crushing it and sitting down on the step beside her in one fluid movement. Debbie stared forwards, not truly ready to forgive herself or Mike for exploding about a few little questions. Would it be a good idea to say sorry now, or let him say sorry first?

An arm slowly crept around her shoulders, and Mike pulled her to lean on his shoulder. Debbie sighed in relief; physical contact meant that it was safe to ignore their previous argument.

"So... do you know the name of that famous dude, at least?" she asked half-heartedly. He tilted his head and smiled, more like a gentle giant than the angry thunderstorm three minutes ago.

"Yeah, my pop said it was John. He was a Marston."


	6. Chapter 5

**Hey there readers and writers. I have no excuse for the amount of time between chapters. Muse comes and goes, I suppose. Plus the fact that these filler chapters make my fingers stop typing every few seconds with boredom. Don't worry, there'll be some awesome interesting stuff later.**

**Disclaimer: Red Dead Redemption belongs to none other than its creator. Fancy that. Debbie is mine, and she's going to stay that way.**

The next day at work, and the air was flat and dead in her cubicle. Ideas simply weren't coming to her, as if the dead air was somehow clogging inspiration in a dreamcatcher-like fashion. Debbie sighed and leaned back, fanning her face with a handful of random papers.

The paper was at an all-time low in news and 'interest stories', yet the boss wanted an _increase_ in every employee's daily outcomes of writing. She tapped her fingers lightly on the keyboard, and cursed when she accidentally clicked on a few random keys, backspacing to delete the gibberish.

A fly buzzed in the dead air, colliding again and again with the florescent light that hummed above her head. It made a strangely metallic clink every time and again. She glanced up at it and blinked at the glowing dot left on her retinas.

"This is ridiculous," the girl grumbled, rubbing her irritated eyes with a dry palm.

'_Debbie Darton and Ian Lewie please go to see Editor Barbett. Debbie and Ian to Barbett.'_

The intercom crackled in and out of existence. She stood up, pushing the wheely chair (it was almost worth getting the job just so she could have a wheely chair) back and straightening her back with a few muffled cracks. "I don't know whether to hope this'll be interesting or dull..."

A steel-grey haired woman watched them keenly over arched fingers, eyes flicking from one employee to the other.

"So what do you have to say for yourselves?" she asked in a quiet voice. Ian and Debbie glanced at each other, uneasy.

"Er... I've been writing all day, Mrs Barbett," said Ian timidly. Her stare was enough to frighten him into silence once more.

"Writing what? About how much you want this job and why? Because I'd love to see that; it may make my decision easier."

"Excuse me, but what do you mean?" asked Debbie warily.

Mrs Barbett picked up a pair of glasses from the desk, placing them delicately on her nose.

"Between the two of you. You do remember that the partnership for one job was temporary, correct?" she asked curtly. They both nodded. "Well, time is up. It's time that the two of you show what you're really made of. I want the both of you to go out and do what news reporters did back when information wasn't available at a click of a button. You're both to go and find a story- I don't care what it's about- and report on every damn detail available. Extra marks to the person that goes to the location personally and gets photographs."

"But-" started Ian, but Mrs Barbett wouldn't hear any of it. "If you refuse to go on this mission, then you'll be fired and Ms Darton will receive the job as a result. The report will be due in a month's time- you may go now."

And with that, the two competing employees found another competition to hate each other about.

"_You want to go to America?"_ asked Mr Darton disbelievingly.

"Yeah, it's part of my job. Remember, that's what I wanted to do in the first place, learn things and go to cool places," Debbie said patiently. A snort over the line told her what he thought.

"Anyway, dad, I wanted to know something; you ever hear of a guy called... uh... John?" she asked tentatively, curling the cord of her phone around a finger. Some puzzled sounds came over the phone, and she giggled- her dad was a grunter, and he had a special grunt for nearly every emotion.

"_John is a bit of a common name. Anything else about this man? Like his full name?"_ he asked. Debbie screwed up her nose in thought. The lingering tiredness from the lan party was making it hard to think.

"Uh... I think his name was Marston. He was, like, American. Do you know him?"

"_Well, not personally,"_ said her dad with a smile in his voice. She rolled her eyes. _"But I think... yeah, we were American once. I think a guy called Marston was part of our ancestry. Why?"_

"Oh, I just want a good story for my boss... she's being _special_ again," Debbie said in a complaining voice. Her dad didn't answer, because he didn't like complaints, so she coughed and looked through the window. There was peculiar grey smog in the kitchen, and she squinted at it. Strangely, the minute she looked at it properly, it seemed to form a shape...

"_Are you sure you want to do this, Deborah? I don't know if this is such a good idea. I got a weird feeling about it,"_ interrupted her dad. The smog was gone. Debbie blinked, and then turned away from it dismissively.

"Don't worry, dad. I'm really looking forward to getting this story done. And I think there was some big back-story to this guy as well, so it could really save my job," she said in a reassuring voice. He hmphed at her, unimpressed. Fortunately he wasn't such a nasty person as to hang up without saying goodbye.

"_I suppose you'll call later, then. Ring up as soon as you get there, okay?"_ he ordered, sounding strangely anxious. Debbie raised an eyebrow, though he couldn't see her over the phone. "Are you okay dad?" He laughed, but the atmosphere stayed tense.

"_I'm fine. Talk to you later, Debbie,"_ her dad said kindly. She acquiesced and hung up.

Facing the sink, she felt a cold finger stroke down her spine, making all of her muscles shiver and spasm. Huh. That was weird.

The girl whirled around and faced her living room, brushing the hair from her face. "Well then, I suppose it's time to find a story."


End file.
